


blood of my blood

by escherzo



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (in that it has been 800 years and all), Apophis is humanoid-size but mostly dragon-shaped, Dubious Consent, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Size Difference, i'm not a scalie but i'm also not a coward, lovingly borrowing the following tag from the tpp fandom:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27794122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “Is there something you need from me?”“Need, no,” Apophis says, and takes another great, echoing step towards him, until they are face to face. Apophis is still nearly twice his height, and looks down at him with an expression he cannot place. “This is... an indulgence.”
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan/Apophis
Comments: 25
Kudos: 37





	blood of my blood

**Author's Note:**

> general notes on the dubcon tag: hamid is going into this with the general mindset of "is a meritocrat and therefore you don't say no to them" and that's reflected throughout, though he has a good (if very physically overwhelming) time. a couple of mentions of his ancestor during the proceedings. Hamid is... nebulously trans here? I don't go into it in any great detail. 
> 
> ... basically I relistened to Apophis Awaits and shook this tag real hard and nothing I hadn't already read twelve times fell out, so, you know, sometimes you gotta take one for the team.

The evening is growing long when Hamid hears the knock at the door. He is still at his desk, a cup of hot tea at his side and a pile of old childhood memories in a stack that he slowly shuffles through as the light outside dims and fades away to darkness. There is no sandstorm tonight to howl outside his windows, and he traces a finger over old words from a diary he wrote many years ago, trying not to wince at the words, at how childlike and simple they now seem. The rest of the house is quiet; the others have retired to their rooms, and there was still light in Saira's room the last he checked, but she hasn't been sleeping much at all as of late. 

“Yes?” he asks, somewhat startled by the noise, a little leap of his pulse, but it seems most likely to be Saira, or one of the rest of the party. The knock comes again, and he pitches his voice a bit louder. “ _Yes?_ ”

“Hamid,” Wilde's voice says through the door, and Hamid sits up straight. “Do you have a moment?”

“... yes?” Hamid says hesitantly, and then clears his throat. “Yes. Come in.”

Wilde looks as tired as he always does as he opens the door, but his hair is perfectly coiffed. He looks... different than Hamid last remembered seeing him. The usual confident smirk is gone, replaced by an uncertain turn of the mouth, and he rests against the doorway for a long moment before letting himself in.

“Is this, is this something that couldn't wait until morning?” Hamid asks, pushing his chair to the side so that he can face Wilde properly. They have things to talk about; they always have things to talk about, and every moment they get, as much as Wilde is exasperating to deal with at the best of times, always feels like it's an abbreviated version of the whirlwind that has become their lives. Still, he can't say he was expecting this.

“Apophis wants to see you again,” Wilde says quietly, looking him up and down. 

Hamid's eyes go wide. “Did, did he say why? I should get the others, if Apophis needs something else from us I have to make sure they're all in a shape to do it, and—” 

“Alone,” Wilde clarifies, and Hamid's eyes go wider still. He thinks of Apophis's words and a flush rises to his cheeks unbidden. _You wear your heritage well._ Apophis knows of their connection, and part of him had hoped, in a quiet, secret sort of way, that Apophis would take an interest in it all. To be special to a _Meritocrat_ \--he shakes his head and tries to push away idle daydreams. It could be anything. He did say that he was the representative of his group. His name's on all of the paperwork still, after all.

“Alone?” Hamid tries to keep his voice from pitching up, and nearly succeeds at it, just the faintest tremor to it. “Now?” 

Wilde nods and holds out a hand to him to help him out of his chair and he takes it. He is uncharacteristically quiet, and the space where half a dozen sarcastic quips would be weighs heavy on the room. “... Is there something _wrong_ , Oscar,” he says finally, as Wilde begins to lead him down to the front door. This isn't like him at all. 

Wilde's smile comes back, and there is an edge to it that Hamid cannot for the life of him identify. “Nothing's wrong. You're not in trouble, Apophis just—wishes to see you.” 

“Ah. Right. Right, okay.” Hamid twists his hands together, trying not to let anxiety get the better of him, and when Wilde leads him to a carriage, he goes. The night is black as pitch, the sky a blanket of stars surrounding them, and there is a strange stillness to the world right now. It has to be nearly midnight; further into Cairo, he can distantly hear the sounds of the bars and casinos, shouting voices carried on the winds, but beyond that, it all feels empty. 

He is wearing his cloak, and his hands come up, self-conscious, to touch the lines where his skin turns to scale, rubbing against the hard brass of it over and over as the silent carriage ride continues on. 

*

In some ways, it's much the same as last time; he is asked to leave his weapons behind, and this time, he has none to offer. He is led to a waiting room, and he sits there, alone in a building much too big for one person, and tries not to fidget too much as he waits, and waits, and waits. The seconds drag on like hours, and he fiddles with the robes he is given until the rough back and forth of the fabric on his fingers begins to make his fingertips hurt. Every movement he makes seems to echo out into the chamber. 

Finally, he is led in, and then the door is closed behind him. This time, there is no one behind him as he waits. There is a void where Sasha and Grizzop and Azu should be, and he is alone in a vast, empty chamber, looking up at the vaulted ceilings hundreds of feet above him. He feels so _small_ here, and he wraps his arms around himself, trying to pull himself together and be calm about it all, but somewhere further into the depths of this room, there is _Apophis_ , who could eat him in one gulp if he displeased him. Even the small shiver of excitement from being called to Apophis alone is drowned out by the fear in that. 

“Come forward,” a booming voice calls from further into the chamber, and slowly, step by step, Hamid begins to walk forward. His steps echo in the silence. 

“H-hello?” he calls. “Sir?” 

“Hamid,” Apophis's voice sounds, if anything, affectionate. “You found your way back to me.”

“I heard you called for me?” Hamid asks, squinting into the darkness at the back of the chamber. “Are you here?”

“Yes,” Apophis says, his voice taking on an amused tone, and he steps out of the shadows, the sounds of his movement across the stone like a snake slithering on sand, so loud in the quiet of the room it nearly makes Hamid's ears hurt. “Come closer. Leave your robe.” 

Hamid's eyes go wide, and he hesitates for a moment, his cheeks heating, but he obeys, trying to quell his racing thoughts. He unties the robe and lets it fall from his shoulders, and all at once he looks up from his task and Apophis, the size of a large human but no taller, is standing before him, in a shape that is humanoid, but closer to his true form than he was the last time they had met. He smiles down at Hamid and reaches out a clawed hand to him, beckoning him closer still. 

“Do you--” Hamid doesn't know what to say, and so he hesitantly obeys, moving closer. “Is there something you need from me?” 

“Need, no,” Apophis says, and takes another great, echoing step towards him, until they are face to face. Apophis is still nearly twice his height, and looks down at him with an expression he cannot place. “This is... an indulgence.”

“An... an indulgence, sir?” Hamid asks, and he does not manage to hide the quiver of his voice. He can feel his cheeks going red, and when Apophis reaches down and tips Hamid's chin up towards him, the blunt side of his claw stroking slowly up Hamid's neck, he shudders. His heart is racing; he hadn't noticed, at first, but now that he is stood still it is all he can think about. That, and the _heat_. The whole room is burning up with it; it is not painful, but he knows it should be. He looks up, his eyes meeting Apophis's, even as it hurts to look directly into them, and Apophis smiles, slow and easy. His claw traces the side of Hamid's neck up to his ear, and he fails to suppress a shudder, the heat of the room pooling in his own gut. 

“You resemble her, you know,” Apophis says, and gives a slow smile as Hamid's shaking hands go to the ties of his own cloak and begin to work at the knot. “Your ancestor. We are of course not supposed to show favoritism, but I was... fond of her.” 

“Oh,” Hamid breathes, and his fingers fumble at the knot of his cloak. He knows what is being asked of him here. Apophis watches him with his burning gaze as he slowly undresses, letting his cloak fall to the floor around him and then his waistcoat, his jacket, his shirt. His hands have turned to claws, and Apophis reaches out as he undoes the last buttons of his trousers and pushes them down and takes his hand, so much smaller in size, but with precisely the same shape to the curve of their claws, the same glittering brass of their scales. Apophis brings his hand to his mouth and kisses it slowly, lingeringly, drawing back just enough to kiss the tips of his claws, his long, forked tongue winding around them as he goes, and Hamid squeezes his eyes shut and tries to bite back the whimper that threatens to crawl out of his throat. 

“My blood,” Apophis says, affectionate, and bends down to one knee before Hamid so that they are face to face, his warmth surrounding Hamid and making his breath come short. He breathes out gently against Hamid's neck and it is burning, it burns so sharply it nearly hurts, but when Apophis touches his face again he can feel the way the claws shift against scaled skin, even with his cloak off. Apophis's teeth in this form are still large, and he traces them along the curve of Hamid's bare shoulder, not hard enough to dig in, but enough to remind Hamid of the power behind it, and Hamid cannot help but reach for him, then, so small and vulnerable against his form, wanting the comfort and the surety of it, wanting him to be _proud_ as he was before. Apophis's teeth nip at him, just hard enough to bring a sweet sting of pain underneath the heat that surrounds them both, and he cries out, unable to suppress it any longer. 

It feels like fire coming from his mouth, and Apophis's eyes are sharp and pleased as he draws back. “Good,” he says softly, and Hamid closes his eyes and lets himself drown in the feeling, the pressure of Apophis's body against his own, and when he pushes his hips against the core of him, trying to chase the feeling that is curling its way down his spine, Apophis chuckles indulgently and presses one clawed hand to the small of his back, tucking him in tighter still. 

His bare skin feels strange against the scales, and every movement is electric; he can feel the flush to his cheeks begin to burn harder with the heat that rises between them, the pleasure that turns fire-hot and sharp. Apophis holds his hips in place, his claws big enough to encircle them entirely, stilling the motion, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath and holds as still as he can, trying to ignore the way he can hear the slickness as his thighs move together. He will take anything Apophis will give him; he is going to take anything Apophis intends to give him, because he is not the one in control here. There is something almost comforting about that. His hands reach out and hesitantly run down the scales of Apophis's chest, his claws small enough to make no dent, do no damage, and they are dwarfed by the sheer size of the body against his. 

One hand goes to his chin again, and Apophis turns his head to make Hamid look him in the eye; it hurts, this close, but it is a hurt that on some level Hamid's body understands. “Do you know what I ask of you?” Apophis asks, and Hamid nods, because he can do nothing else in this moment. When Apophis lifts him into the air as though he weighs nothing and settles him astride Apophis's hips, he goes, even as the part of him that is not burning from the inside shudders in sharp fear at the difference in their sizes. At what he is surely being asked to take into himself. He can feel a slick hardness along his back, brushing against him as Apophis shifts him, hands still guiding both of his hips, and it feels like it goes up to nearly the middle of him. 

_Will it hurt?_ he does not ask, because he does not think he will receive an answer, and Apophis moves him back against his cock slowly, lingering, eyes closing as it catches against Hamid's skin. It is not scaled like the rest of him, but it does not feel, at least like this, like quite a humanoid shape either, and when Apophis finally lifts him by the hips and begins to lower him down, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing himself to be open to what he is being given. 

It feels enormous inside him, even just the tip of it, and he cannot reach Apophis like this, being held in the air, and so he holds onto his own thighs with his claws and lets them dig in as he is slowly, achingly slowly, lowered onto a cock that feels like it goes on forever, taking up every inch of space inside him and then some. He cries out, so loudly it feels like his mouth waters with it, and Apophis makes a soft, soothing noise and stills him, half-impaled, and his toes curl with the feeling of it shifting inside him. He only lets Hamid linger for a moment, trying to grasp the feeling, to find something in it to center himself, before his hips are pushed down the rest of the way, and distantly, underneath the sheer physical shock of it all, the overwhelming pain-pleasure of it, he recognizes that his eyes are beading with tears. 

Apophis sits up, then, curling around Hamid, his wings wrapping around Hamid's back to keep them both in a cradle of his warmth, and his long, forked tongue flicks out to lap away the tears. “You have done well,” he croons, and Hamid, eyes wide and gasping, tries to smile, but he is still drowning in the sensation. 

Slowly, so slowly, Apophis begins to move, and Hamid clutches on as tightly as he can to his chest, his sides, anything that he can reach, the pleasure inside him spiking higher with every movement that makes him cry out into the echoing silence of the room, so deep it hurts but so full he could stay here forever, drugged on the feeling of it. Apophis continues to watch him, his eyes open and searching, and a small smile crosses his face as Hamid begins to push back into it, rocking down to meet Apophis as his hips are guided with careful, great clawed hands. Once upon a time, Hamid's ancestor did this, too; once upon a time, she carried the child of a Meritocrat, and that is why he is here, an echo of the past. The thought sends a new spike of pleasure and fear through him. He could do the same. Perhaps the purpose in him being here is for him to do the same. 

Apophis's teeth drag slowly up the side of Hamid's neck, and into his ear, he murmurs, in that same voice that seems to take up the whole room, “ _Good._ ” 

Hamid shudders at the words, and through the overwhelming crush of sensation, he finds that he is smiling properly now as he is lost in the rhythm of their bodies moving together; he has done well. He has made Apophis _proud_ , and it is that thought that finally pushes him over the edge, the pleasure cresting as Apophis holds him in place and grinds into him, so slow and deep his whole body goes lax. He loses all sense of time, all sense of _being_ , for a long agonizing moment, and it is only the hot rush he can feel of Apophis coming inside him that brings him back to himself, held tight to Apophis's hips with two careful, curled claws. 

Apophis opens his eyes, and Hamid can feel the flames in his own as he meets them. It hurts to keep eye contact, but he steels himself and pushes past the discomfort, and Apophis reaches out to trace the back of one claw slowly down the curve of his cheekbone. It feels as though there is a test here, and it is one that he has passed. After a long moment, Apophis lifts him off again, settling him to the ground, and gestures to his pile of discarded clothes with a quick nod of the head. 

“O-of course. Yes,” Hamid says, and his voice comes out hoarse. He kneels down beside the clothes and tries to force his hands to stay steady enough to rebutton them, even as his skin still prickles with the sensation. 

“I may call on you again, when you are next in Cairo,” Apophis says, and he watches Hamid with a careful, critical eye. “But I hear you are off to Damascus to serve us further.” 

“Uh, yes, sir,” Hamid says, careful fingers retying his cloak around his shoulders, Apophis's name written in gold on his back. 

Apophis nods. “Then you are dismissed, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan.” He takes a slow, thunderous step away from Hamid, and then another, echoing out into the room, until all at once Hamid is alone in the silence again. 

His knees are weak as he moves towards the door, and in his mind he is still replaying _the next time you are in Cairo_ over and over again. There are marks still lingering on his bare skin from Apophis's claws, and with every step he can feel the sting from them alongside the ache inside himself. He shudders, lingering on the memory of those claws curled around his hips, the way Apophis moved him as though he weighed nothing, and an aftershock of pleasure curls through him. 

Next time in Cairo. He finds himself nearly looking forward to it.


End file.
